I Will Try to Fix You
by Follow-ur-Shadow
Summary: Months after their return from Hollow Earth Helen is still struggling and Will can no longer deny there's a problem.


**I Will Try to Fix You**

**Category**: Angst

**Pairing**: Helen/Will

**Summary**: Months after their return from Hollow Earth Helen is still struggling and Will can no longer deny there's a problem.

**Warnings**: A little dark, little angsty and contains spoilers for season three.

**Disclaimer**: Own nadda.

**Authors Notes**: Set just before 'Awakening'

OO

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><p>OO<p>

He knows something is wrong.

Has felt it lingering on the edge of their conversations, observed it in the tail out of her movements when she thinks nobody is watching but despite the surmounting evidence, he still can't quite seem to place what _it_ is.

Ever since their return from Hollow Earth she's been distant, standoffish and there's concern circling that it's her body taking longer than 'normal' to recover. He uses the term loosely because it's not exactly normal to travel through a time dilation vortex but even so, the cure Ranna provided should have worked instantly. Instead she looks tired, like she's lost even more weight since his own abnormal encounter a few weeks back and while he never thought he'd use the word _frail_ to describe her, there really isn't any other way to put it.

Part of him feels at fault for not confronting her sooner but if past experience has taught him anything, it's that sometimes giving her space is the best course of action to take. Not only that but it took him a while to get back on his own feet after changing into a giant Lizard. Then of course he was trying to balance a social life, catch up on work...

The reasons are starting to sound like excuses, which triple his guilt as he glances down to check the time. It's already late but he's more perturbed to see that the library door is closed. He knows it's occupied though because there's a faint flicker of light seeping out beneath the splintered wood and he knocks softly before pressing down the handle.

The fact that there's no protest spurs him further into the room but he's immediately taken aback by the strong smell of liquor, scotch if he's not mistaken.

Sure enough his eye's locate the bottle sitting solemnly next to a shot glass on the table, and now he really is starting to get worried. His boss might enjoy the odd glass of Chardonnay but he's never seen her down nearly an entire bottle of spirits, much less with only a dying fire for company.

Despite the fact the room isn't cool, he shifts to the muted flame throwing another log over the dull embers. It only takes a second for the spark to catch and roar up, further illuminating the small space as he turns towards her. There isn't a hint of the hostility he's expecting to face but he's still wary as he moves to the end of the couch, lowering himself with a sigh.

His hand automatically winds out to the empty shot glass and he tilts it thoughtfully, glancing between her curled up form and the bottle, "mind if I...?"

She nods, somewhere between ignorant and just plain disinterested. She stopped caring about most things by the fourteenth shot and the only thing really bothering her now is the fact he's re-birthed the fire, making it far more difficult to pass out.

"_Smooth_-" he gasps out, contorting his face as the after taste burns his throat. It mightn't be vintage Chardonnay but the standard is no less and he's nearly drunk from the fumes alone.

Dropping the glass back on the table he drags his wrist back up stifling a cough into his sleeve. If the alcohol and sombre atmosphere aren't a dead give-a-way that something is definitely wrong then her lack of amusement at his inability to hold a shot clues him in. There's nothing, not even the flicker of a smirk as he takes in another steady breath and with a frown he shifts a little closer to her, "_Magnus_?"

Her eyes remain fixated, glued to a spot somewhere out of his perception and he takes the opportunity to simply watch her. It doesn't escape his notice how pale she's become over the last few weeks. Even now, with the warm light of the fire illuminating her features, there's a distinct grey tinge bleeding into the dark circles beneath her eyes. Being English it's not like she ever sports a particularly seasonal tan but it looks like she could've been underground for months and he has to remind himself that it was actually only a few days.

"_So_..." he starts hesitantly, hoping to gain at least an acknowledgement, "what are we celebrating?"

She takes a moment but her lips barely move, addressing him with a tired tone, "_life_."

Despite his optimistic approach he knows they're not celebrating anything, much less another miraculous escape. He's almost scared to press her further, scared to hear the answers buried in silence but if he doesn't ask then there really isn't any point in being here. "You weren't expecting to find a cure were you?"

_No_.

That's the response she can't bring herself to admit; that Hollow Earth was supposed be the end.

It was, at least for a moment. A few fleeting seconds reprieve from the demands of a life that's spanned well over a century. She should be happy, _grateful_ for a second chance but she's not. She's beyond tired and after finally accepting death the bright lights and colourful noises of an animated world seem harsh and exhausting.

Her old friend may have been right, she pushed herself too hard in trying to find a cure for Will's metamorphosis. At the time it was almost a relief to be kept busy but the effects of her exertion have lingered on. The images of his transformation, the feelings of helplessness are still keeping her awake at night and as much as she tries to reassure herself he's here, _alive... _his dalliances of late have seen him be more absent than usual. She won't begrudge him a life outside the Sanctuary, would never admit to being jealous but a small part of her will concede to the fact that it hurts, more than it ought to given their strictly platonic relationship.

She sighs, squinting at her nails as if they'll reveal the truth. They don't. The surfaces are chipped, in desperate need of a manicure and she winces at yet another inconvenience she hasn't found the motivation to attend to.

The silence is unnerving and he takes in her glazed expression, realising that nothing is going to get resolved tonight. She's drunk and true to her nature -_in defiance of normality_- the alcohol has only worked to bury her secrets deeper.

"Come on," he offers lightly, pushing up from the couch and extending his hand, "I think it's past both our bedtimes."

She wants to protest, reprimand him for treatment that caters to a child but his eyes are already soft with hesitation and she can't find the strength to remain angry.

Instead she tries to rise on her own... but fails at the attempt, stumbling unceremoniously into his chest as the room tilts sharply. She can now recall the dangers of stationary drinking, the sudden rush that comes with any slight movement but all she can do is breathe deeply and try not to embarrass herself further by heaving onto his shoes.

He takes the majority of her weight with ease, so much so that he's actually alarmed by how effortless it is to hold her up and he quickly decides not to wait in voicing his concerns. With surprising agility he sits her back down, taking the space beside her and letting his fingers slip gently over her knee.

As expected her eyes flutter open but he doesn't break the contact, deliberately highlighting the concern in his voice, "when was the last time you slept?"

It might seem like a ridiculous question -_given she's just nailed a bottle of scotch_- but there's more to her current state that can't be blamed on alcohol. Even the amount she's drunk isn't enough to make her this far gone, not with her accelerated healing abilities, and that fact propels his next guess, "...or the last time you ate something? Are we talking days, what?"

Her clenched jaw is all the confirmation he needs, that it's more like a week, and his hand lifts to swipe over his brow, "damnit, _Magnus_."

They've been down this road before, after Ashley died and he felt as useless then as his does now but at least then he had a tangible reason to work with, at the moment he's running blind. "I can't help if you won't talk to me."

"I don't recall asking for your help." She draws her lips thinly together, wondering how far she'd get in procuring another shot. Not that she wants to be any drunker but surpassing the dizzy phase and submerging straight into oblivion feels more desirable than sitting through a lecture.

Unfortunately though, she doesn't imagine she'll get very far given his sudden rise from the couch and the wave of annoyance that follows. "Well, clearly you need it-" he scrubs his hair dismissing the wisdom in challenging her, "_Jesus_, I mean look at you, you're hammered...you really think I'm just going to let that slide?""

She's particularly careful not to slur her words, straightening a little as she narrows her gaze, "_yes_, if you recognise what's beneficial to you."

"I'm sorry... did you just _threaten_ me?" His brow lifts in surprise and when she cocks her head, an indication that's exactly how she intended it to sound, he's further astounded by her tenacity. The fact she's so unwilling to confide in him, that she doesn't trust him enough to be honest is more than a little hurtful but he can recognise it isn't a personal attack. This is how she plays the game, how she keeps her emotions guarded and if he takes offence and storms out then she wins.

Because she might think she has the upper hand but he _does _know her and even though it's only been for three years, he can tell when she's being genuine and when she's trying to manipulate a situation to suit her own needs.

"Stay with me-" he suggests, deliberately turning the tables to throw her off balance, "in my room tonight."

"_Excuse me_?" She does a double take, wondering if she's heard correctly but when he plants himself back beside her she can't find anything but conviction in his gaze.

"Look, I know you don't want to talk and that's fine but you're exhausted, you need to rest-" his voice is softer, hoping the shift is enough to convince her it's a good idea. Under normal circumstances he would never make the suggestion, wouldn't have the nerve to coddle her but right now he'll work the alcohol in her system to his advantage in any way possible. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of company, even you can't deny that."

She's honestly not sure what to make of the offer but her instincts tell her it's a bad idea and she sets her jaw firmly in response, "I hardly think-"

"What, that it'll make a difference?" He's quick to interrupt before she can present any excuses, "trust me, just having somebody else in the room can make a difference."

"That it's appropriate-" she counters, trying to remain fixed on the notion. Part of her wants to succumb to the comfort but she's certain it's the part of her judgement that's been impaired by copulas amounts of scotch and she deliberately lowers her gaze so she wont be tempted to disregard her resolve.

"Why, because of Abby...?" He wonders if that's the factor he's been missing. They still haven't discussed how a personal life might hinder his duties at the Sanctuary but while he's adamant it won't, he expected the 'talk' none the less. However, up until now she hasn't given the slightest indication that it's a problem and if he thinks back, particularly to their less than respectful interruption of her and Henry's dinner, he's probably deserving of a reprimand.

"Because _I_-" she stops short, finding sudden interest in her warn and battered hands. The alcohol's threatening to draw out admissions that she hasn't yet had the chance to consider herself and while part of her is screaming to release the burden, the last thing she wants to do is strain their friendship further.

"What?" He pushes, mesmerised by the flush that's turning her skin a deep shade of red. It's rare to see her embarrassed but the only plausible end to her sentence his mind can facilitate is ridiculous; she couldn't possibly be harbouring feelings towards him, could she?

_No_, she was in love with Jack the Ripper for Christ's sake and he's what, a thirty-something guy who's barely a blip on anyone's radar? The idea is ludicrous but he's never seen her so unsure and, hoping she won't remember if he's off the mark, he encourages her to finish.

"Are you...do _you_-" he stumbles over the wording, finding it hard to phrase, "is there something you'd like to share with me, that maybe I should know?"

She can tell what he's inferring to by his tone and continues to avoid eye contact, despite the action giving away her answer.

He doesn't need to be a psychiatrist to decipher the meaning and lowers his voice in an attempt to goad the truth out of her, "_hey_, look at me... do you want there to be something more between us?"

She's mortified by his conclusion, mainly because it's true, but finds no use in continuing to deny the fact. It hasn't seemed to help thus far and she's too tired to think of a way out, too exhausted to keep playing games. Instead she takes a deep breath, wrapping her arms tightly around her body and trying desperately to pretend that they aren't having this conversation. "What I want is irrelevant, you deserve to be happy."

He can feel her insecurity in waves, is utterly perplexed by the notion that he's the one being put up on a pedestal and before he can register the move he's gripping her shoulder, the other hand coming up to rest against her cheek as he tastes the bitter burn of scotch on her lips... and it's every bit the spark he's missing with the women he's been 'sort of' dating.

He likes Abby, _really_ likes her but without intending to sound harsh he can't envision it lasting until they're old and grey. For one, watching Henry and Erika interact reminds him of the chemistry their relationship lacks and if he thought for one second he could find that with someone of Magnus' stature then... he knows it's wrong to compare but he'd almost forgotten what it was like to succumb to a need so desperate it defies reason and there's no denying the lust that's suddenly raging between them. It's only the fact that she's highly inebriated that quickly forces him to stop and when he does his heart is pounding, so fast he'd almost swear that he was the one drunk and not her.

Breathing heavily he pauses to swallow, curling his fingers up under her chin in order to capture her gaze. "We _both_ deserve to be happy," he states simply, hoping the words make it past her glazed expression. He's not sure whether they do but when her head lolls gently into his palm, he takes it as a sign she won't give any more protests tonight and he slips his arm around her waist helping her to stand.

Surprisingly, she's a little more steady on her feet this time but he doesn't dare let got, not until they reach the elevator and he's forced to because of the narrow entry. But even then, she's back against his chest before the carriage has started to move and despite the odd turn this evening has taken, he allows a small smile to ride the journey with them.

Because he knew something was wrong.

But now, he's one step closer to fixing it.


End file.
